


Scattering of Shadows.

by hennethgalad



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Sun and Moon.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-04 13:13:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15842019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hennethgalad/pseuds/hennethgalad
Summary: Arien and Tilion in Valinor before the fall of the Trees.and after.





	Scattering of Shadows.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [feanorus-rex](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=feanorus-rex).



 

https://hennethgalad.dreamwidth.org/file/4180.jpg - art by feanorus rex

 

 

   Súlinárë sang with Melkor, often in duet, or at times alone, but always leading the chorus whose joy and vigour resonated through the choirs.  
   Arien felt their rhythm, harmonising with Yavanna, now loud and resonant, now flickering into slow ripples. Yavanna and Melkor were silent and Arien heard the softer voices of Súlinárë and herself, shaping a melody in gentle rills that spread about them as the other choirs took up the theme, and Manwë sang a phrase of simple pleasure, taken up by all his folk, and echoed by the mighty horns of Oromë, where Tilion played.

   And in this moment Melkor roared, and Súlinárë fell silent, and the music faltered. The sound that issued from Melkor had no place in music, nor in the thought of the Ainur. But even as they hesitated, Melkor sang, in tones of contempt and wrath and furious anguish.  
   Súlinárë made his thought known; Arien, for the first time, felt dismay. The Void sprang among them, inside the heart of Melkor, and through him, Súlinárë, and into her own thought and music. She fell silent, striving to hear only Yavanna, whose gentle melody strengthened as Vána accompanied her mighty sister, blythe and fearless. The Music rose around them, springing joyously as the chorus of Vána grew in courage, until the warmth of their exuberance lifted her spirit and Arien sang, a part of the flame that kindles.

 

   Arien stared at the water, aware of herself again after long in dream. The memory of Súlinárë was fresh to her mind as though he had but strolled away. She sighed, incredulous yet that he had refused the call, that he had remained, chastened, by the feet of Eru, while almost all had descended into the vision of their dreams, and here in Arda shaped Song into forms of beauty; in rock and river, cloud and tree, and through all the Flame, in myriad flourishing, in endless dance, burgeoning and fading, under the shining stars.  
   But none in Arda had the voice of Súlinárë, and the music they had made together was lost, and without it, Arda was diminished, and Melkor had done this thing, before all. Her wrath was as the dark smoke of sodden wood, she could not sing at such times, and others took up the care of Laurelin while Arien sought wisdom, and peace, in the gardens of Irmo.

   The birds around her hastened their tunes, at her back Laurelin waxed, and Arien breathed deeply, drinking in the Light as a flower on the shore. She rose and turned, letting the Light fall full upon her, gazing open-eyed at the glow of the standing flame of the Trees, the flame beyond the sight of the Eldar, and painful even to many among the Maiar, the Flame Imperishable, the Gift of Eru.  
   In the Light she felt herself dissolve. The grief for her loss, for Arda marred, for the unsung music, melted into the golden haze, and all about her the flowers of Lórien were bright and the merry birds flew singing in the blossom of the trees.

 

   Tilion sat on the polished bark of the fallen tree, by the small lake called Fletchers Moult. Yavanna and Aiwendil had encouraged the birds to fly to this clearing, and the branches of the trees were lined with them, the songbirds of Valinor, with rich and varied feathers, soft and nacreous, or deep, bright, or irridescent.  
   Hawk of Oromë, with its silvery plumage and golden tail feathers, was hard to find, even to the finest hunter, and Tilion had waited long at Fletchers Moult. He sang softly, dreaming of Telperion, far to the East, but his song faltered as the vision of Arien came to him once more. He paused, the arrow forgotten in his hand, seeing yet her eyes burn through him as she passed, while around them the birds had seemed to dance in the wake of the passing of Vána, and the Light rose up, a flourish of blossoms, their scent an enchantment.  
But Arien did not pause. They had never sung together, she would not. And when he asked her why, she would frown, as though his question made no sense. But Tilion could remember Súlinárë, a voice of fire in the Halls of Eru, who had sung with Arien before the shaping of Arda.  
   Tilion shrugged, he was a hunter, a scout and an archer, he rode with Oromë. He had been there in the starlit lands of the East, far across Belegaer, when first they heard the singing of the Eldar. He had seen the triumphant joy of Oromë, and sung in ecstasy that the long labours of Eru and the Ainur had borne such sweet fruit.

   The Eldar... He had been disappointed. They were so scanty of gift, so feeble, imprisoned each alone in a cage of flesh and bone until the world ended, or they were damaged beyond healing. They bled ! They could hardly see, the colours they claimed to perceive were but a few leaves of the great forest... Their ears, their ears were so weak that he doubted they could have heard Súlinárë sing even had he come... And their minds ! Where there should have been clarity there was passion, clouding judgement and sense, the flames turbulent where there should have been calm. It was no fault of Arien, but the missing voice of Súlinárë seemed to Tilion to be most keenly marked in the spirits of the Eldar.  
   He smiled at his folly, for to a Valar such as Oromë he himself must be as puny as the Elves appeared to him. He sighed, dark thoughts had plagued him of late, and he sought the isolation of the deep forest, until no song could reach him but the birds and beasts, marking his soft passing, or blundering unknowingly within a hands breadth of his stillness.  
   But beyond the birdsong, the mighty counterpoint of Eru himself, and his diminished choir, striving to fill the silences where Melkor would have sung, or singing notes that were not music, the opposites to the noises of the madness, to dampen out the destruction.

   The endless struggle of the Valar inspired him; he was being unworthy, pining for Arien, Arien the living flame, who shone as clear as glass, but glass that brightened rather than diminished the Light. Arien who could not imagine even why he grieved, and had finally said, with careful patience.  
   "You are as a butterfly who would swim with the fish. It cannot be."  
But Tilion had whispered her name as she danced away, "Pity the butterfly, my lady"

 

  
   Arien stood beneath the sweeping branches of Laurelin, one arm raised to rest her hand on the limb of the towering Tree. The Light was thick about her, beyond the brightness the dancers of the chorus were vague shapes in the glow. Yavanna sang in deep, mellow tones, Maiar and Eldar together played flute and horn, harp and drum, and the Song of Winnowing rose about them.  
   Arien felt the life of the Tree resonate with the song. Yavanna, in form of an Elf of great stature, moved closer, the Light flowed around her, and shone from her grey green eyes. Her long hand reached out and with one fingertip she touched the hand of Arien.  
   As they sang, the Light cleared, dispersing like mist, the eyes of Arien seeing now not that which her limited form permitted her, but seeing as Yavanna herself could see, the great roaring furnace of life that filled the veins of Laurelin, and the immensity of Yavanna, power and realm streaming out behind her like a shadow formed of living flame, or the rain cast from the cloak of a thundercloud.

   Arien let her spirit clear, the walls of her form became mist, and dissolved, and the spirit of Laurelin, the very mood, flowed into her heart, and echoed forth in her song. Yavanna, lifting both arms high into the air, sang joyfully, the chorus harmonised as the musicians began the second movement of the Song of Winnowing.  
   For in the ground beneath the Trees, strange flowers flourished, and the creatures who ate of them grew strange in turn. They grew large, or small, they glowed, they darkened, they changed in scent, colour, fruit, claw; nothing resisted the full Light, and the care of the Tree meant that every seedling which strove to sprout on such blessed ground was studied diligently.  
   All were removed, nothing could be permitted to muffle the Music, nor dim the Light. But some were sent to farm or garden, or to Valmar and Tirion, where their vigour enriched the lives of all. Many were taken out, to mead and woodland, to flourish where they would be welcome. But some few, left in the full Light, withered away, for the power of the Trees cannot be contained.

   Yavanna turned with the dancers to lead the procession down the hill, but Arien and those who remained, set to work, uprooting the seedlings, placing them in baskets and passing them on to the carters. They sang on, but released from the enchantment of the presence of Yavanna, their words were less true to the original, and their tones were jesting, and laughter rippled through the music.

   But like a wrong note, or a note from another tune, Olórin was there, a young Elf at his side, and concern in his eyes. The Elf could scarcely see so close to Laurelin, but even Olórin averted his eyes from the Light. Arien felt disquiet, she could imagine no grief that could trouble the tranquil rhythms of Aman, yet here was one of the Wise among the Maia, and a yellow-haired Eldar. She could see that it was young, but steady, the alert poise of a hunter, but still, a very young hunter. Yet it did not do to voice such thoughts; these were thinkers, singers, wise, skillful and subtle crafters. All Aman marvelled at the rich and flourishing cultures of the Eldar.  
   Olórin led the Elf towards Arien, and gestured to his guest.  
   "My lady Arien. This is Glorfindel. There are prophesies regarding his fate."

   Arien looked thoughtfully into the rich blue eyes under the sleek rippling gold of his hair. She imagined Súlinárë in such a form, and smiled to herself. This creature was scarely able to see her, much less appreciate her voice, and as for singing together...  
   "I have heard songs on this matter. What brings you here, now ? It does not do for the Eldar to approach the Trees closely, you may be hurt. The Light is mightiest here and there are changes, unforeseen changes. Unforeseeable changes. Speak swiftly and withdraw to safety."

   "My lady Arien" the Elf spoke, and his words lit up his face, the features she had thought merely handsome now seemed charming, and she was surprised to find herself smiling, and noticed a grin on the face of Olórin. "My name is Glorfindel, I am not important except to my family, and a few friends. I have not lived long, and I have little learning and no wisdom.  
But all my life I have feared the dark, and avoided crossing the Calacirya. My lady, I have not seen the sea.  
    And in recent times, a dream has begun to haunt me, a dream of darkness, in which the Light of the Trees wanes more swiftly than if every branch were severed and buried in a great pit. The darkness spreads until it is absolute, and I awaken, trembling with fear."

   Arien could see the fear, his body shivered away the tension, but his eyes, in the valour of his heart, searched her own. She found herself nodding slowly. "Such dreams, or visions, have come to others; the black darkness has been seen. But those who see it have no foresight of how it could befall us, nor what manner of preparation we might take."  
Olórin moved a little, as though he would speak, but stepped back silently. The Elf shaded his eyes, and Arien turned away, looking up at the standing flame.

   It was inconceivable that darkness should fall. It was impossible ! She frowned, seeing beyond the Trees to the gardens that had arisen on the swards where Vána danced, the golden flowers glowing in the Light. She laughed, and smiled at Olórin, who narrowed his eyes, but smiled in turn.  
   "But such words are in vain, for the Flame is Imperishable, there can be no darkness."

   The Elf gaped at her, but Olórin put a hand to his forehead and smoothed away a frown. He glanced at the Elf and looked thoughtfully at Arien.  
   "My lady, I would have you show the gardens of Vána to Glorfindel, if we may walk awhile with you ?"  
   "It is my pleasure to welcome you to the gardens, and to have you admire our works."  
Arien smiled as the Elf glowed with pride, but his eyes were haunted as he glanced at Olórin, and the song faltered, for without Súlinárë so much harmony had been lost. This Glorfindel would have pleased him, she knew, and it seemed to Arien that the darkness might be the shadow of those as Súlinárë, who had never entered Arda, and left so much undone. She frowned, she could not take the part of even one missing Maia, but the thought of the tireless chorus in ceaseless song to heal the hurts of the Enemy gave her courage. She smiled, and strode ahead into the brightest of gardens, and gathered the golden flowers.

   As Olórin drew near with the Elf, she held up the garland she had fashioned. It shone even in that garden, even under Laurelin, and as she held it up before Glorfindel, he hesitated. But Olórin laid a hand upon the shoulder of the young Elf, and Arien placed the garland on the golden hair.  
   Olórin stepped back, then turned to smile at Arien. She smiled at the favourite of Nienna, and felt his gratitude as though he had been sent to bring about this very moment. To her surprise, tears glistened on the fair cheeks of the Elf, in the Light from the garland, which turned his blue eyes into sparkling jewels, brighter than sapphire.  
   "My lady Arien, forgive my doubt and folly. The Flame Imperishable ! I feel as an infant, who forgets the first lesson. It is consoling to think that I am unimportant and my folly will have few consequences."  
   But Arien laughed. "There is nothing to forgive. But you truly have forgotten your lessons if you think that importance is of any concern. Do you not recall the Ainulindalë ? 'the minute precision' ? Do you think that the leaf is more important than the petal ? Do you think that the eye is more important than the wing ? Who can say what your part might be ? Only sing with all your spirit, and know that nothing can diminish the Flame, though our eyes may lose sight of it in our folly."

 

 

   Nécar, the steed and companion of Tilion, scarcely seen against the shadows under the trees, made his presence felt with a soft sigh of breath. Tilion glanced up, the dappled grey horse blended with the shadows of the leaves. The Light was faint, far from Ezellohar, and he smiled, remembering the shimmering beauty of the hide of Nécar beneath the Trees. But here, where the fell beasts of darkness endlessly probed the borders of the Elven lands of Valinor, Nécar merged with the forest, and stood with stone patience as Tilion, still but for his searching eyes, held his watch.

   Tilion sighed and rose to his feet, the Hawk of Oromë had not come, his lord must wait; there were arrows, and archers aplenty, and the time drew near for the great Festival. He gathered the unfletched arrows and wrapped them carefully, as the Light waned about him. The birds paused as he rose, beckoning Nécar to him and vaulting astride the familiar back of his dearest friend. It was fortunate, thought Tilion, that Nécar did not speak, for he had shared many secrets with his friend. He stroked the dark mane and whispered "Home".

   But even as they reached the first of the paths, a horn called in the North, and Valaróma answered. Nécar twitched an ear, as Tilion turned his head, feeling his heart quicken and his spirit soar. They might come late to the feasting, but the hunt was up, and he would ride with it.

   Within a league he heard the sound of hooves agallop in the West, and horns calling from South and East, as the revellers turned back for a last chase. Horns in the North drew nearer, Nécar laid back his ears and lunged forwards even as Tilion stooped low across his mane, as they punched through the wind, pounding across the glades, the drum of mighty hooves made music by the horns, and the silver hair of Tilion streamed back, lashing behind him.

   A sudden roar brought a shout of triumph to Tilion, he reached for his own horn and raised a blast. Nécar slowed, as the thickets before them thrashed. Tilion drew his bow, Nécar turned and cantered to a halt, breathing hard, his great neck bowed for a moment, then lifted again, the dark ears twitched forwards, pointing into the shadows. Tilion aimed along the line, for the horse had hearing sharper than any Maia, and sent an arrow from his silver bow into the darkness.  
   There was a throaty bellow, Tilion smiled grimly, then widened his eyes as the beast sprang forth from the thicket, and charged them.  
   Nécar stood steady, Tilion loosed three arrows, swifter than thought, and the fell beast howled, its claws reaching for him as it lurched. The air stood still, the beast was within a breath of slaying Nécar, Tilion felt his heart halt, he fired again and the silver arrow hung in the Light. The slavering fangs were wide, the reddened eyes narrowed in brutish fury, the scales stood each erect, and the horns dripped blood.

   Tilion, even in his fear, wondered at the creature, it was of a kind he had not faced before, nor heard tell of. Some new malice of the Enemy, loosed to test its mettle, and their own.  
In the clarity of the stillness, he tried to remember life before Nécar, to face the future without him, for the death of the horse seemed certain. The beast was swooping towards the dear dapples of Nécar, sinews stretched, talons grasping. Tilion, for the first time since the taking up of flesh, feared for his own body. For should his steed perish, his silver knives would offer scant threat to the beast.

   But the spell of stillness broke; a flight of arrows hammered from the East, as Valaróma sounded, and three Elves appeared, galloping hard from the West.  
The fell beast, arrows between each scale, gouted blood from scores of wounds. The silenced body loosened, sinews cut, and the spirit fled. It slumped to the ground, carried sliding, half turning, driven yet by its own murderous charge. It slowed, stopping before the very hooves of Nécar, who snorted softly. Tilion sighed with relief, stroking the still neck, whispering his love and gratitude to the steadfast horse, as the Elves slowed their charge, shouting triumphantly to Tilion, raising a horn to blow the Call of Death, to share the news with friend and foe alike.

 

   Though the hour was late, Tilion pressed Nécar to his utmost, craving a moment of peace in Lórien, before the roar of festivities drowned him. To the keen ears of the hunters, the voices of the hosts of the Eldar, a multitudinous medley of ever-changing tone, struck like a tempest on the heart. Tilion felt his spirit as dusty as his gear, and both required tending before he faced the bewildering throngs.

   Lórien was deserted, he could not recall ever seeing it so. He smiled, fortune favoured him this day, he would swiftly find the peace his spirit sought. He removed his silver armour, tore off his silvered tunic, and dived smoothly into the pool of Estë, feeling his sinews ease as the cool water slid past his skin. He floated then, smiling, as his limbs hung heedless in the shifting colours of the water. He breathed deeply, half-closing his eyes, as the Light of the Trees washed over him, soothing his brow as the Eldar soothed their young with touch of hand.  
   Tilion thought of the Flame Imperishable, which Eru had taken from his own self, with which to render life, or Life, into being. To the hunter it seemed as though Eru himself, in the form of the Trees and the Light, reached into his creation to soothe the brow of all who toiled within.  
  
   He sat awhile on the shore, drying swiftly in the soft warm Light, and watched the ripples settle into stillness. As he drowsed, his mind empty of all but a smile, his own silver reflection was cast into dimness by the light of Irmo, standing behind him.  
Their eyes met in the water, and in an instant the image of the Master of Dreams was fixed into the mind of Tilion as never before. His iridescent robes, the nacreous flowers of his crown, the flowing silver hair and the unfathomable eyes, shifting in depth and colour as the sheen of the bubble in the foam. But most of all the smile, as unreadable as even the slightest thought of a Vala to a mere Maia. Yet it seemed sad to Tilion, sad but kind, and amused...

   Tilion leapt to his feet and spun around, but he was alone. He turned back to the water, clear, gleaming in the Light, and shook his head, then spoke aloud the words of The Song for Irmo: "Do you but smile at the Master of Dreams..."  
But he was late, people would frown. With the fleetness of the hunter, he raced away.

 

 

 

   They fell silent with the fall of Light, eyes raised, mouths left agape that had sung with joy, stilled now with terror. It was deadly cold, and on the disordered wind, a vile stench. Those who remembered the Music considered the thought that they had returned from within the song to the Halls of Eru, to hear new themes; that naught had yet been made save only the Music. But the choking foulness of the Darkness brought the truth clearly even to the dullest wit.

   The Two Trees, mighty Laurelin and fair Telperion were perished, and though they themselves remained yet within Eä, within Valinor, without the Light, what hope could there be ?

 

 Those whom the Darkness most injured were laid on Ezellohar, and the tears of Nienna and the song of Yavanna brought healing to their spirits, and one by one they rose, and drifted away.

   The silence was astonishing.

   Valinor had seemed ever quiet, and peaceful, but the songs of those who Dwell there are strong, and had once softly filled the air with beauty and joy. But since the fall of the Trees, the creatures of mead and wood were silent, the very wind was stilled, and the air grew heavy and rank with the decay of so much of the life of Valinor.  
    Arien stood in her accustomed place beneath the unthinkably darkened branches of Laurelin. Her mind could not accept the death of the Trees, it could not be.  
At times it seemed to her that she wandered in Lórien, in a dream of horror from which she soon must awaken, could she but recall the way...  
The darkness which had first spilled forth from the ruin of the Trees had passed, not darkness, but Darkness. It had choked their breath, their hearts and their very thoughts. The touch was loathsome, foul and acrid, and the fear was paralysing. Time could not be measured, nothing could be measured, nothing could be seen. Arien thought, with a horror so deep that she forgot her own anguish, of the frightened young Elf, afraid of the dark. Despair touched her heart, she could do nothing, nothing at all, not for herself, not for him, nothing. For an instant she had thought the Enemy triumphant, Eä destroyed, and herself, alone, lost in the void, for always.

   But the smooth lawn lay cool beneath her feet, and voices sounded, near and far, and out from the thick blackness a reaching hand had come, and she had grasped it, as the darkness thinned, and one by one above them, the stars of Varda were revealed.

   The last fruit of Laurelin seemed to Arien to have grown in place of her heart. The heart of flesh, which beat within the Eldar form she wore, was consumed in her firece joy at the return of the Light. Her heart renewed, burning with a roaring flame of awed wonder, sang with greater passion than ever she had mastered.

   But her voice was as a bird piping in the reeds as the hunters of Oromë passed and Valaróma sounded, echoing to the hills. For Yavanna sang, and the last of the fell darkness melted away into the clean night under the stars, and the voices of all were lifted up in gratitude to Elbereth, Varda Eléntari.

 

 

  Oromë had given him a bow, wrought of silver, but lighter than arrows and limber as a faun. Tilion had wondered what foe might assail him among the stars of Elbereth, but Oromë had smiled at him, and nodded to Eonwë, who spoke sternly, but with a warm smile "When foes assail you, the Hunt will ride with you, Wayfinder."

  Tilion had bowed, smiling yet silent. Gratitude and love filled his heart and shone in the eyes of his companions; under starlight they had ridden, long miles across far, strange lands and music made exultant. But each knew the thought of the others, and Tilion did not rue his choice, but longed above all else to steer the silver vessel, to sail the stars, and to ride the great Hunt with Arien, with the dream of his heart, with the spirit of fire.

   But as he turned he stopped, Irmo was there, leading his people in a soft, rippling song, and the deep flutes echoed, and the horn of Ulmo sounded, thin with distance, as the spirit of Tilion floated, in the sea or in the air or far beyond the stars, part of the Music.

   The dust of countless gemstones swirled at his feet, he sang as he walked, and heard the gasps of the crowd. He paused and turned, and gasped himself. For floating in a cloud, rising as though from the cloak of Irmo, a glittering swarm of silver grey moths floated into the air behind Tilion, shimmering in the Light of the last flower of Telperion. He laughed and raised his hands into the air, as the silvery moths sparkled around his arms, settling on his fingers and floating away, as living gems, the treasures of Yavanna. Tilion paused, thinking as though for the first time, of all he would leave behind. But he knew that he could not see another sail in his stead. He must go, therefore, and see no more of moths, or birds, or gleaming fishes. Nécar... He would miss Nécar more than all else... He bowed his head, as the moths fluttered away, and turned, his face moving almost at once into an eager smile as the great ship of Valinor shone before him.

   The vessel was a thing of beauty, silver and sleek. Tilion stood proudly on the deck, and bowed to Arien, and she smiled at his folly. The breath of Manwë lifted the sails and filled them, straightening the slender silver lines that tethered the shining ship.  
"Isil the Sheen", the Vanyar sang, and Arien thought with a smile of the yellow-haired youth who had feared the dark. Truly, the Flame Imperishable lived on, and the silver flower of Telperion turned all into a grotto of the Halls of Ulmo, nacreous and gleaming, shadowed with violet, and glinting and sparkling on silver and gem on the hosts of gathered singers.  
   The smooth pearled timbers creaked, the lines dropped shimmering, and Tilion blew his horn of silver with a triumphant new call. Isil rose into the sky, as all below fell silent, and the voice of Tilion floated from on high, singing a new song he had made, the "Song of Isil", and they listened until Isil shone remote in the East, and the voice of Tilion was lost in the wind from the sea.

 

 

  
   Olórin sang with Nienna, as Anar was prepared. The ship was golden, delicate as the finest hair. A mere dream of a ship, it seemed to him, yet the stuff of the Flame was not weighty, as the matter of Aulë; its power lay in an altogether different sphere. He considered the forge, and gazed up at the last fruit of Laurelin, at Anar the Fire-golden, the Light for the second Children of Ilúvatar.

  
   This Flame, he thought, what is it ? How is it ? We are warned against these thoughts, against following the path taken by Melkor, but if not this Flame, what of the lesser flame, that lights the darkness beneath the trees ? How do they differ ?  
   Arien was bidding farewell to those she cared for. Olórin was surprised at first to see so few, but he would not forget her eyes, and the long shadow her glance had cast upon his spirit. Few cared to approach the splendour of Arien, and the Light of her eyes.

   But the song deepened, the tension in the mighty host could be felt in the faintest quiver in the choirs. The rhythm intensified, the Maia stepped back from the impossible craft, the shining ship, the vessel of Anar. Arien stood alone, and looked her last on Valinor. The crowd as one sang "Farewell !"  
   Arien raised her hand, darkened into silhouette, small against the glory of Anar. There was hushed silence, as Arien began to glow, and shine, and her form turned into sparkling dust, that rose glittering around her, until it melted into the ocean of Light from Anar Fire-golden, last fruit of Laurelin.

 

   They were blinded for a time, and silent, until a voice began the "Song of Anar". And as sight returned to him, Olórin saw the dazzling Light, mounting the sky, swift and blinding, as blinding as the eyes of Arien in Valinor. And he laughed aloud, and people turned, and then laughter spread, and the sound of their joy echoed from the walls of the Pelori, a sound of rebirth and hope, of Light in dark places, and the scattering of shadows.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
